One
Dave Morgan?
“Hey, Dave. Hold on a sec…”
“Okay. Now I can hear you. What’s up?”
“Your mother asked me to pick you up.”
“Where are you?”
“Level D. Space 30.”
“I’ll be there in a sec.”
I stick the phone back into my pocket. The last time I saw Dave he was leaning against the side of a white pickup truck, one ankle crossed over the other, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans.
I haven’t seen him in four years but from how I reacted to his phone call, I wonder if seeing him will still cause my stomach to perform a series of Olympic-quality gymnastics.
Seriously, Charity. Get a grip.
My inner dialogue kicks in, causing me to chuckle and then respond under my breath. “Oh, shut up.”
When I joined the Army, I met men from every corner of the country and discovered something frustratingly inconvenient.
None of them were Dave, but then, no one could be.